


Animal in Me

by Searece, Snowfire (Snowdream)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime, Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Bad Parenting, Bestiality, But plot, F/M, M/M, Smut, Transformers Kink Meme, Wolf Shifter/Werewolf, cyberwolf mech relationship, virgin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9676133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Searece/pseuds/Searece, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowdream/pseuds/Snowfire
Summary: Jazz has an unexpected craving.  Prowl doesn't know if he should reveal his biggest secret.





	1. Chapter 1

Heat builds in his frame, his servos bound to the helm of the berth as the mechanimal climbs up on his frame. He mewls at the feel of the other's spike pressing against his waiting valve. He moans as he feels the mechanimal's spike push into him. How could he have gone so long in his life without feeling this? He sighs contently as the mechanimal's knot stretches him and prevents him from moving, not that he wanted to anyway.

_Ping_

He frowns as he tries to access his comms. The mechanimal behind him disappears as he continues to try.

_Ping_

The ropes binding his wrists unravel and he stands on his servos and knees on the berth.

_Ping_

Darkness consumes him and he feels his soft berth against his back and the thermal blanket wrapped around him.

_Ping_

His optics online and he glances around his dark quarters, the only sound in the room his own systems running. Was it all a dream?

_Ping_

"What do you want mech?" he nearly growls over the comm. Silence replies and he notices the caller's ID: Prowl. Well, frag.

"Is it safe to assume you will not be attending the officer's meeting in two kliks?" Prowl asks. Jazz slouches where he sits on his berth at Prowl's disappointed tone. Great, he snapped at Prowl, the only mech who doesn't think he bought his way up to be an officer.

"Give me a few breems," Jazz says, throwing the thermal blanket off him. He doesn't notice it wrapped around his pede until he falls flat on his faceplates. Grumbling under his vents, he kicks at the blanket until it gets off his frame. Stupid blanket. Stupid morning lag. He stumbles into his washracks, processor only half on getting to the meeting but trying to hurry. Cold solvent splashes onto his frame and he squeaks, quickly shutting it down and drying off. He turns and, in his hurry, runs smack into the door frame.

"Ow! Slag..." He rubs his helm and avoids the frame of his quarters's door; instead, he makes sure the door fully opens before he attempts to exit. He skulks down the hallway, not needing to be cheerful when nobody was around. Eventually he makes his way to the conference room, almost late to the meeting.

Prowl glances up as the door opens, the mechs in the room turn their helms to Jazz. Red Alert frowns as Jazz takes his seat across from him.

:What happened to you?: Red Alert asks over the comm.

:My washracks don't like me. ): : Jazz sends back.

"Now that we are all here . . . and present," Prowl says, glancing at Jazz as he passes around the data-pads with the reports of the shift of scouting routes. "We can begin."

Jazz steels himself for the, surely long, meeting.

"As you all know, the Decepticons gained valuable information with the capture of Steelwire. It forced us to make hasty changes to our operations and with hasty changes comes accidents and loopholes. I've called us here to formulize a stronger plan of operations and to make a backup in case we should require it. Only a few officers will have that information to prevent the Decepticons from learning . . .”

With whatever Prowl talks about, Jazz usually feels he can listen to Prowl's voice for ages and not get tired of it. Today he imagines something different. His servo distractedly twiddles a stylus, twirling it up in the air and catching it without his conscious decision. His visor hazes over as he thinks of himself the only bot in the conference room. His servos are tied behind his back as he kneels beside the table. A form paces behind him, leaning against his back and growling against him. A moan escapes Jazz and he jolts, glancing around. Slag, had anyone heard that? He sinks into his chair.

“In the past we have relied solely on information gathered for us by our scouts. The Decepticons know the identity of most of our scouts,” Prowl says, glancing at the mechs in the room. Ironhide seems to be staring at the data-pad in front of him; Red Alert is watching him expectantly, which is always a little creepy; Mirage scrolls through the data-pad, stylus busy taking notes; Jazz . . . Jazz sits there--wait, was that a moan? He frowns minutely as he looks at Jazz sinking into his chair; a quick glance around proves that no one else heard it. "Jazz, would you be interested in recruiting new scouts for your team?"

Jazz's helm snaps up. What? He hasn't done anything, really! His visor seems to grow wide in his panic. The question processes and he sits back with a quiet sigh. Prowl hasn't heard him... do that? Thank Primus. "Um... yeah," he finally responds. Does Prowl want any other response? Maybe he should make something up to appease him and get the spotlight off of himself.

“I would like you all to discuss this with your department and return next orn, same time and place to discuss our findings,” Prowl says, with a nod he dismisses the others. “Jazz, will you stay behind for a few pulses?”

No, Jazz wants to say, because he wants to go back to recharge and try to forget his daydream and not potentially be confronted about the moan. He sits back in his chair for a moment and then stands to be at closer optic-level, where Prowl is still standing. "O' course I will. What do you need?" He leans against the table, servos stretching behind him.

"Is there anything going on that I should know about?" Prowl frowns a little at Jazz. "Anything that would prevent your full attention to Autobot duties?"

Jazz flushes. Had Prowl heard it after all? "No, of course not," he rushes to say, "I just didn't get a good recharge cycle. And running into the washrack doorframe didn't help," he grins and thumps his helm lightly, then winces.

"Is there a reason you are beating yourself up with your quarters?" Prowl asks. A barely there smirk finds its way to his faceplates. He had to admit a flustered Jazz was cute, and if his olfactory sensors were anything to go by, it was more than bad recharge. "You can tell me anything, Jazz; that is why we are friends."

Jazz ducked his helm away, a shy sort of smile on his faceplates. "It's nothing. It'll pass. And . . . my quarters just don't like me." He debated adding something else, and why not? "Think yours wouldn't attack me, on occasion?"

"I can ask the Prime to give you a new set of quarters," Prowl frowns, no attempt to hide it. He turns away a little. He can't get close to anyone. No one can know. "If you truly want new quarters, come by my office to get the data-pad application."

Prowl gathers his data-pads and heads towards the door. His frown deepens as he opens the door. Jazz, or anybot, can never know what he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=15931541#t15931541
> 
> Okay, so Jazz likes and is curious about human culture right? Idea came to me that while browsing the net, he comes across a porn sight... with humans getting fucked by animals. He happens to get entranced by one with a human getting fucked by an animal with a knot, and without realizing it he starts 'dreaming' about that... being tied down like the human was, his valve exposed, and some mechanimal with a knot fragging and knotting and attempting to breed him. And he eventually gets his wish when someone notices how out of sorts he's gotten... although whether it's a mech that gets a knot mod or an actual mechanimal I leave up to the author.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Searece, "Managed to finish two days early! For Skyrange, to whom I promised to have it up by Sunday, and Rammy, who asked why mecha think Jazz bought his way up. I hope this answers your questions!"  
> Also, kudos to Danatheleseus here on AO3 for helping Searece out with the insults during the flashback.

Prowl sighs as he sits at his desk, servos shaking as he holds the data-pad. His vision blurs a little as he tries focusing on the reports. He glances at his servos as they shake and slowly his digits morph into claws. Clenching his fists, his claws scrape against his palm. :Optimus, I require a few joors off.:

:All right, Prowl,: Optimus replies, and Prowl stands from his chair, locking his office as he heads to the main door of the base. Transforming just outside of the doors, he speeds over the terrain of Cybertron. It's good to be back home on Cybertron after vorns of space traveling and alien planets. He slows as he reaches the edge of New Iacon, Cybertronian wilderness spanning out in front of him. His frame folds down and a black and white cyberwolf stands at the edge of the wilderness. He vents in deeply as the smells of freedom surround him. The scent of an electrodeer catches his attention. He stands straighter, audios pointed forward before he crouches and sprints off in the direction of the mechanimal. As he approaches, he slows and takes cover behind the bushes. The electrodeer glances around before resuming eating the crystal berries. 

He slips around to the mechanimal's back, optics glowing so deep a shade of blue that they almost turn purple. He creeps up to the unaware mechanimal, and all his strength goes into his leap as his claws dig into the unarmored metal of the electrodeer. The mechanimal screeches and tries to get away, but he slashes the metal. Energon gushes down the hind legs and splatters over the ground and on him. He swipes at the electrodeer's neck and the mechanimal falls to the ground offline. As he licks the Energon, his frame calms and the lust of killing fades. Nothing else in his processor matters other than feeding. 

 

Prowl onlines in the forest of crystal trees, frowning a little he glances around. He stands, only to realize he's still in his cyberwolf form and covered in dried Energon. There is no way he can even think about showing up at base looking like this or covered in Energon. He listens for a stream of Energon. Finding one a few pulses to his left, he begins cleaning his frame. Mid-lick a noise catches his attention and he glances up to see a femme cyberwolf standing by a bush. While she watches him, he frowns internally. Most of the mech cyberwolves of this area are hunted and sold to breeders. He watches as she slowly approaches him. A quick sniff of the air and he realizes he made a mistake in staying in the forest too long. He growls at himself. The femme cyberwolf sinks, audials folding back a little and glancing away, tail tucked between her hind legs. 

He can't help but feel sorry for her; he doesn't mean to be mad at her. Just himself. He stands and she starts to back away. Poor cyberwolf. He circles her, causing her to freeze and watch him. While his processor is running mainly on cyberwolf instinct, he still possesses a mech's intelligence. If he does this, he can't just abandon her or any of the pups they would create. He knows it would compromise his secret, something he cannot afford anyone to know about. The Autobots would surely lose their tactician, whether it be by dismissal or by hunters learning and forcing him to be a cyberwolf. 

He turns his attention back to the femme. He sighs as he slowly approaches her, the scent drawing him closer to her. She whimpers a little, probably thinking he's going to hurt her. He can do this, he tells himself. He’ll just keep track of her and the pups. Visit them every so often. See how they’re doing. But what about her hunting when she’s heavy with his pups? She would be an easy target for others, predators and hunters alike. He jerks as he feels her lick his helm, watching her she bows her helm. He clenches his jaw as she lies down in front of him, submissive. He steps around her, her black and blue coat shimmering in the light shining through the crystal leaves. Her frame is thin yet strong, he can see. Not a bad choice of mate really. He could have been dealt worse. 

She flicks her tail away, causing him to jump a little. He takes a deep vent, snout pressing lightly against her exposed valve. She stands, causing him to back away slightly, but he presses his snout against her again, the scent heavy in his sensors. It’s not like this is his first time, he chuckles to himself silently. Jumping up a little, he wraps his front legs around her, his spike pressurizing against her valve. He bites her neck a bit, and she yelps a little as his spike presses into her. He has to admit a cyberwolf's life is much simpler than a mech’s life. There’s no drama. Just survival. He can’t help the internal moan, something that no normal cyberwolf would know. 

He scoffs a little at the thought of being so socially cut off with the other mechs that he’s come to resort to mating with a cyberwolf. He sighs as he realizes that he couldn’t even find a mate as a mech. He growls as his knot forms and he stops moving; there’s no more point in it. His transfluid will fill her gestation chamber; she will get sparked; and he will have pups instead of sparklings. He won't hear them call him sire. They won't go to programming where he will help them with their assignments. There will be no trips to museums or amusement parks. There will only be teaching the pups how to hunt, to kill. 

The femme cyberwolf mewls under him and he licks her helm. There will be no courting Jazz now, something he’s been afraid of doing since they became friends. At least cyberwolves don’t have fields for her to know his pain. 

As they part, the femme cyberwolf nips his neck and tugs him. Does she want him to follow her? He follows her as she heads deeper into the forest until they come to a hollowed out crystal tree as big as a cave. Is this her den? It isn’t far from the base's western gate. He can easily come to her over the half vorn carrying time. She lies on the pile of ragged thermal blankets making up her berth. He lies beside her as she falls into recharge. How easy it would be just to stay here like this. He wouldn’t have to deal with what happens when he returns to base. Slowly his optics dim as his recharge comes. 

\--

Jazz smiles as the door to the Rec room slides open. He walks to the Energon dispenser and puts an empty cube under it as he punches in his code. Life-sustaining liquid glows inside as he takes his cube over to a table. Bumblebee waves at him.

"Hey, mechs, how's it going?" Jazz lounges with his pedes propped up against the table.

"Good." Bumblebee grins, "Sideswipe was just about to tell us about Kaon."

"Oh, was he?" Jazz settles in for a good time of watching his friends, but soon his processor returns to the morning meeting, and his dream before that. What a strange dream. Yes, he calls it strange. There is no way he will think of it as "erotic" even if it gets his systems overly fired up. He overrides the command for his fans to turn on. It will be embarrassing if his fans click on more than low. He could be back in his quarters, thinking about all the ways he wanted it.

He would be kneeling, bowing almost, with his chest pressed to the berth and his arms above his helm. The mechanimal would lick his neck, eliciting a shiver, as it places its front servos over his shoulders in preparation.

"--zz? Jazz!"

Jazz lurches forward and very nearly spills his cube as he looks up. "What?" He coughs.

"Is something wrong?" Bumblebee frowns at the officer, "You kinda spaced out there."

Yes, something is very wrong with him. He is imagining himself being taken by a creature with a knot and he cannot focus enough to get through the day. "Nah, not at all," he tries for an easy grin, "Just had a bad recharge."

"What, did you fall off the berth and hit your helm?" Sideswipe chortles.

Jazz raps his knuckles onto his helm. "This is from my washracks attacking me, thank you very much." Sideswipe looks to be about to say something else, but Jazz swings his pedes onto the ground and tells them, "I think I'll retreat to my quarters. Got some catching up to do on my recharge." As if. His next duty shift is the next orn and he doesn't intend on sleeping right to it.

"See you, Jazz!"

He waves at them as he trots to his quarters. Besides, he is too charged to recharge. Upon reaching his quarters and stepping into his washracks, he turns the solvent on and lets it beat down on his heating frame. His servos trace over his neck, where he imagines the mechanimal would bite him, and trace down his chest that would be pressed to the berth with its weight on him. He moans aloud as one servo palms the heated cover between his legs. He's been running hot all day, since that awkward dream.

Then he thinks of being in the conference room. His temperature spikes and the panel retracts, allowing him to finger the folds of his valve brushing over the hard seal just inside. During the meeting, he imagined it circling around him... and then he'd been called into the spotlight by Prowl. His visor flicks on, temperature chilling abruptly as he recalls how his stay after had ended. Why had that upset Prowl? He doesn't usually make comments like that, but they were such good friends that he thought Prowl would have taken it as a joke or laughed it off. He can't let this stay between them. Jazz shakily turns off the solvent as he pings Prowl to open a comm. He remembers the first time they met, the beginning of their friendship . . .

*flashback*

_Why? He has done nothing wrong. In the peaceful darkness that surrounds him, Jazz listens. Listens for the stamp-stamp of pedes, for the malicious giggling whispering. He's chosen a good hiding spot, though, because he can't hear them. That relieves him more than he thought it would. His arms wrap around his knees as he buries his face into the protective cocoon. Sniffling, he tries to push away their words. "Berth hopper," they call him, but it isn't true! He swears it isn't. They are just exaggerating the frequency he goes to another's berth. He does like to recharge beside another frame, but for warmth and security, not "activities."_

_He whimpers into his knees, his engine hiccupping as he dents his legs where he holds himself. Warm fluid drips from his optics, rolling down his visor and blurring his vision. They call him worse things than berth hopper, things that just aren't true. "Malware" is something he hates even more than "buymecha," especially because as a Special Operations recruit, he contains far fewer viruses than even common frontline soldiers will have. A wail burst from his throat. He fiercely scrubs his optics as he tries to calm down, but another cry escapes him._

/Clank-clank./

_Jazz freezes. Please, don't let that be what it sounds like._

/Clank-clank./

_He bolts to his pedes and looks frantically around. There has to be someplace to escape. Vents? No, too small. Out the door? No, no, the steps are too close! In a crate? No, no, no, none of those are big enough either. There is nowhere to go. With a stifled hiccup-sob, Jazz rips open an emergency thermoblanket pack and curls up in a small space between a pair of crates, tossing the blanket over himself so hopefully he'll look like part of the supplies, if a messy part. He finishes moving right as the door opens. Trying to stop his sobs, he listens, hoping the mech will leave without doing an inventory check._

_"Is someone in here?"_

_'No,' Jazz mentally replies. He only just now realizes that the tiny room is practically burning with residual heat his engine had bled into the air. He cycles air quicker as the thermoblanket warms him past what his frame is comfortable with. Who was the owner of that voice? He has never heard the mech before. That voice is deep, far deeper than his, and rich like an oil cake he had once tasted._

_"I can read your spark frequency," the mech says. "Why are you hiding down here?"_

_A whimper escapes him. Slag! He had forgotten to engage his spark dampener? Checking his programs, he sees that yes, he had forgotten. Quickly he engages it and prays to Primus that the mech thinks he imagined him._

_"That won't work, but it narrows down who you are," the mech chuckles a little, voice silky. "Thank you for telling me you're special operations. And I know most of the mechs in that department; only the rookies would think of hiding after something bad happened. We've only accepted a few new applicants, I saw two of the recruits already in the rec room and Windcharger is out on patrol. You must be Jazz."_

_His processor whirls at the incredible deductive reasoning and the long words of that voice. Why... why does the mech mention Windcharger? The mech must be here to shout at him, although that voice doesn't sound much the shouting type. He curls up tighter under the thermoblanket and whines, the noise involuntary as he shakes. Can he not go a joor without being bullied?_

_"Jazz, what happened? Did something bad happen on a mission, or in training?"_

_He can hear the worry in the mech's voice but the mech doesn't move. The mech steps forward to let the door shut, but that's as far as he goes for now. 'Just get on with the harassment,' he thinks. That has to be why the mech is here. Outloud, though his spark tells him not to, he makes a strangled "nuh-uh" noise. He doesn't want the mech to hear him cry._

_"Then that leaves personal, something happening on your time off," the mech says. "I could go to the surveillance room and ask the security director for the recordings to find out. That would take time and, as I am currently on shift, I wouldn't get my work done. You could tell me and we can resolve the situation and I can return to my duties without getting in trouble."_

_"Nuh-uh... Go aw-away," he chokes out, his voice whisper quiet and shaky beyond belief. He doesn't need the mech's pity, if the mech truly doesn't know why he's upset. Maybe the bot wants to find new ways to torment him by pretending to care. Who is this mech, anyway? Special Ops only lets their own members know who the rookies are, at least as far as he knows._

_"I cannot leave you down here," the mech says softly, walking into the room a bit more and sitting on the crate beside his hiding spot. "Will you tell me?"_

_He whimpers, plating clamping to his protoform in fright as he peeks part of his helm out. "Wh-why?" The mech will just agree with the harassment. He wipes under his visor with a trembling black servo, but that does not clear his vision. Optical fluid has gathered onto the inside of his visor, he realizes, and he can only see a fuzzy black and white outline of the other mech._

_"There you are," the blur of a mech says, and he hears a smile in his voice. "Will you tell me what has you hiding down here?"_

_He doesn't want to. He really, really doesn't. Slowly he uncovers more of his helm. The more he thinks about why he's hiding, the more his optics well with fluid. His throat closes up on him but a wail escapes anyway. He shakes his helm as he sits up. "Th-they..." He turns his helm away from the persistent mech and hugs himself, feeling vulnerable and exposed._

_"They? The Autobots? The special operation department?"_

_"Everyone," he tells the mech as if the mech doesn't know. Maybe he really doesn't know. He takes off his visor and shutters his optics, blindly rubbing the visor with the thermoblanket to clean it from fluid before he puts his visor back on. "They call me b-berth..." he trails off, shaking._

_"They call you what?" the mech asks a frown in his voice._

_Does the mech really not know? he tosses the mech a furtive glance as he tells him, "Shareware, buymecha, overheated. Little bit of finery..." His voice cracks. That last term references when buymecha during the early golden age, or before, used to dress up in the finest steel-spun cloths and jewelry to make themselves attractive. Now, it means a bot looks dressy and classy but really interfaces with so, so many bots. "Spike s-sucker."_

_The mech frowns a little before his doorwings shoot up in a tight v. "Who said these things?"_

_He startles at the mech's display of anger. "Everyone," he repeats, then starts thinking. Who harasses him the most? Who does he notice the most? Windcharger does a lot, but he has to work with the mech. If word gets out that he ratted on the mech, who knows what the bot will do? He has formidable powers over electromagnets, after all. He looks away guiltily._

_"Jazz," the mech holds out his servo. "Who said these things about you?"_

_"Well, Windcharger, I guess," he tentatively takes the mech's servo and leans closer to him. Does the mech truly want to comfort him? Or is he spending time with him to report to his tormentors that they "spent time" together in in a utility closet? "Gears..." Gears isn't an Ops operative, just a normal Autobot. Both Gears and Windcharger were minibots._

_"Anyone else?" the mech asks. "Does anyone else say these things to you or around you?"_

_"I've heard Tracks call me a 'greedy spike-slut' and 'eager merge-whore,'" his features flush as he says the terms, "but not to my face, just others in the washracks at the time."_

_"So Windcharger, Gears, and Tracks, anyone else?" the mech asks gently pulling him up to stand without even standing himself. He stumbles into the mech's knees, servo coming up to brace himself against a crate above the mech's helm. He peers away, not meeting the other's optics from the sudden closeness._

_"Mostly Warpath, I think." his servo slides down the crate, dropping do his sides. When his servo brushes over the mech's chest, he jerks his servos away. With a step back, he is relieved to not be so close, though he still held one of the mech's white servos. The mech pulls his servo, pulling him closer until he falls onto the mech's lap with the most embarrassing squeak. Tensing up as he feels the mech's servo starting to rub along his back, he slowly calms. So far the mech has expressed anger at what he's been called. He won't try to take advantage of him, will he? He turns a worried gaze to the mech. "I..." he starts to say._

_"Shh," the mech says, pressing a kiss to the top of his helm, a soft kiss like what a guardian would give to his charge. "You're upset and need to be comforted. I want you to know that you can always come to me if you need someone to talk to. No matter how small or non-relevant you think it is."_

_He mentally flails even as his body slackens in the other's grip. What is with this caring... caringness? His optics water and he burrows his face into the other's neck with a hiccup. Cradled in the other's arms, he feels nothing like the strong special operations agent he is supposed to be. "I never got your name," he manages to get out as his engine idles down._

_"Prowl," the mech says gently rocking back and forth._

_"Prowl," Jazz repeats. He tucks himself tighter against the mech, helm lowering against the mech's chest. His audio presses against the center of the mech's chest, where the seam for it to part is, and he hears the most beautiful thing. A soft noise escaped him. The mech's sparkpulse echoes in his audios and he quietly activiates his recording function. Prowl might say he can always come to him, but if the mech changes his mind, he doesn't want to forget this sound of comfort. Maybe he can feel safe with this mech. He hasn't felt safe his entire time in the Autobots._

_He doesn't realize that he falls asleep in Prowl's arms._

*end flashback*

Prowl had carried him to his quarters, he recalls. He never discovered how Prowl knew where they were, but he was glad. He certainly wouldn't have felt up to walking there himself. After that... After that, he'd never been harassed again, at least not in the quantity and vileness that it had happened before. But he can't help the feeling that the mechs still think he somehow bought his way up to where he is in the ranks. He knows they probably still talk about him and Prowl. Now that Prowl is Second in Command and Head of Tactical, they wouldn't hesitate thinking he got to be lieutenant of special ops, or more importantly, Third in Command, the rank just under Prowl, without some bribing or personal favors. 

\--

Prowl onlines slowly as his comm pings, the warmth of the femme cyberwolf presses against his back. He internally frowns as the ID comes with Jazz's designation. What does Jazz need? Jazz is a capable mech to not need him. He offlines his optics again, only for a more urgent ping. He sighs and stands from the somewhat hard berth. Perhaps he should gift his mate some new and plush thermal blankets. These seem to be from before the war, before they left Cybertron. He leans down, licking the femme's soft helm. Can he stand to go back and forth between lives? Optimus will never allow him to take a whole vorn off or anything like that. He presses his snout against the femme's abdomen; he can feel the warmer temperature under the plating than the rest of her frame. 

He frowns as he looks at her. They would never be able to bond, something he always dreamed of doing. He would also never be able to kiss her, something he's been curious about. In his spark, though, he can't find any ounce of regret in claiming her as a mate. His comm pings again but without the urgency to reply. A message pops up on his HUD from Jazz.

/Hey, Prowl. I... I just need to talk to you. It's not about the war or anything but please comm. me back when you get this./

:Jazz, this is Prowl,: Prowl walks out of the makeshift den, glancing around before finding a broken branch. He plants it in the ground making it look like a small tree. Over time the branch will eventually start growing into a new tree. His frame shifts so he stands upright, doorwings flicking a little as he steps through the forest. :Would you meet me at the western gate?:

:Of course! Thanks.:

Three breems later the base gates appear trough the tree line. Standing inside the gate, he waits for Jazz to come. What could Jazz need to talk to him about? His audios perk at the sound of steps. Jazz trots around the corner and grins in apparent relief upon catching sight of him.

"Hey, Prowl! Sorry if I kept you waiting. I kinda expected you to tell me to meet at your office." Jazz stands in front of him, a little too close.

"I was not on base actually. I requested off early this orn," Prowl says, stepping back a little to be at least an arm's length from the other mech. He pulls his field in tight; he has to keep that in mind now. His spark pulses longingly for his mate, which reminds him that he should go into the city to find some thermal blankets for her. 

Jazz frowns, lifting a servo to set on Prowl's shoulder like he normally does, but letting it drop when Prowl moves further away. "You could've told me. I would've just asked to meet later... But anyway, I wanted to say I'm sorry, for this morning. I didn't mean to upset you with the whole quarters thing. Um..." He ducked his helm, something else on his processor.

"It's alright. I know something is bothering you; you know you can tell me anything that is on your processor," Prowl says, reaching out and placing his servo on Jazz's shoulder. He bites his glossa at the stab in his spark. 

Jazz lays his servo over Prowl's and smiles up at him, shifting on his pedes. "Right. Um . . . " He bites his lip before deciding to just come out and ask, " . . . Is there something wrong with me, for thinking about being . . . spiked by a mechanimal?" He stops meeting Prowl's optics as he asks.

Prowl can't halt his flinch and he backs away from Jazz. Did . . . did Jazz somehow find out? He frowns and puts his servos on Jazz's shoulders. "Mechs . . . mechs can't really . . . Jazz, you should probably take some time off from your duties as an Autobot. I think the stress is getting to you."

"I feel fine though," Jazz protests, optics wide under his visor. He can't take a . . . time off! He is just a little . . . bothered.

"Jazz, whatever is making you have these . . . fantasies might come in conflict with your performance in the Autobots," Prowl frowns, spark aching as he continues to hold Jazz's shoulders. This may become a problem. "You could deactivate if you're distracted in the field. I couldn't . . . I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

Vents catching, Jazz stares up at him. "The Autobots need me though. You . . . you need . . . " His voice is low and choked, as if forcing the words out. What will he do if he isn't in the Autobots? Where will he go? It has been so long since he joined their forces.

"Jazz, the Autobots do need you, but we don't need a deactivated you," Prowl sighs, pulling Jazz in for a hug; oh, how his spark hurts at that. "You could check on Ratchet and the Autobots Earthside on your vacation. If they need help you could help them. There will be plenty of ways to relieve your stress there."

Jazz wraps his arms around Prowl and slowly lays his helm on Prowl's shoulder. "I . . . I guess that would be a good idea. I'll help the Earth Autobots." He still doesn't like the idea of taking a vacation, but Prowl rarely gives him bad advice. "How long do you think I should stay?"

"Five decaorn, it'll give you plenty of time to gather intel about the remaining Decepticons on Earth and visit with the others as well as rest," Prowl says as he forces a smile. It would also give him time to figure out how to deal with being a cyberwolf and mech. He's half tempted to cyberwolfnap his mate and lock her in his quarters, but that would stress her out and harm their pups. 

"All right. I'll do my job there and . . . rest," he says it as if it leaves a bad taste on his glossa. He pulls back from the hug and peers up at Prowl, "Is there anything bothering you?"

"No, why would there be?" Prowl frowns down at his friend. There's nothing that he can tell Jazz about. 

"You just look a little tense, that's all." Jazz smiles sheepishly and glances back toward the base. "I guess you're going back out there, then?"

"Yes, I have unfinished business I must attend to," he sighs as he turns away from Jazz. 

"Oh? Well, I'm going to go ask Optimus for a vacay," Jazz groans a little, "But hey, Earth'll be fun. Thanks, Prowl! It means a lot."

"You are most welcome Jazz," he smiles to the mech. Why couldn't he have had this conversation before meeting the femme cyberwolf? If he knew Jazz wanted that kind of interfacing, he would have had no problem with going to Jazz as a cyberwolf. He leaves as Jazz heads toward the offices. :Optimus, Jazz is coming to request a vacation to Earth. I have given him the idea. I believe it would be beneficial to send him to Earth. I will give you the report of my reasons in three joors.:

He walks out of the base, heading for the markets. Now on to his mate. He frowns as he walks to the markets. Cyberwolves had a tendency to live longer than mechs if they were in good health and a great fighter. He could be bound to this femme for longer than Jazz could wait for him. He rubs his helm as a processor ache begins. He doesn't even know his mate's preferred colors. The rags of thermoblankets were soiled and matted. Although perfectly functional for a cyberwolf, the mech in him hates to think his mate has to rummage around for scraps. It would be a safe bet to think she likes black, white and blue, since it is their frame colors. She might even like red; he had red on his helm between his audios. 

Stepping up to the vendor of thermoblankets, he sees most of them have sparkles in them. He frowns; that wouldn't be good for a cyberwolf. He trails his digits over a dark blue one; it's soft, softer than even his in his quarters. She will like that; she seems to be one for softness. She does lick him, while the other one didn't. He takes the thermoblanket before looking at the others on display, a purple one catches his attention. It's made thick; it would keep her and the pups warm as well as provide enough padding than what she already has. Hopefully she likes purple, he thinks as he picks it up and purchases the two. He walks around the market, vendors of Energon treats are scattered around. Grazing his digits over a container of treats, he frowns as he realizes his pups would never be able to have treats. Mech-made Energon would make mechanimals sick; although, he could get natural occurring Energon and make his own. 

He walks through the vendors, seeing nothing else that a cyberwolf could use and heads back to their den. As he reaches the den, he pauses when he hears something off to the right of it. Subspacing the thermoblankets, he stalks toward the noise. Peering over the bushes, he notices a mech kneeling over a cyberwolf frame. His spark sinks, tanks churning as he sees it is a mostly black frame. The mech moves away to get an Energon blade, he sighs quietly when the cyberwolf is black and orange. He backs to the den slowly and carefully to not alert the hunter before setting the thermoblankets on the ground and shifting into his cyberwolf form. 

He drags the blankets in, fangs sinking through the material as he pulls them into the dim den. He hears his mate shifting on the makeshift berth, probably wondering what he's brought. She comes up to him, her helm rubs against his shoulder plating and she notices that the present isn't food. The mech in him notices the disappointed look in her optics. He pulls the thermoblankets to the berth and climbs on them to lie down on, showing her that they're safe. She joins him on the new berth, helm nuzzling under his. His spark pulses happily as she falls back into recharge. 

His next return, he shall hunt before coming into the den. He starts licking her helm as she falls deeper into recharge. Maybe he can slip out and hunt before she onlines again. He slips out from behind her, careful to not make her online before he realizes why she hasn't left the den, his scent. His mech scent lingers outside when he transformed. She's afraid of him, or at least his mech form. He stands outside of the den, frowning internally and not paying any attention of his surroundings. He yelps in pain as something sticks his side and he glances up to see the hunter from before. He growls and another softer growl comes from inside the den. The femme's purple optics glow in the darkness and he growls at her to warn her to stay away. 

"You'll make an excellent addition to my cyberwolves," the mech says. He growls and lunges for the mech, how dare the mech threaten his family. His mate bites the mech's leg, but before the mech can hit her, he bites the mech's arm. The taste of mech Energon on his glossa snaps him out of his rage. Never before has he attacked a mech. He's always thought of them as his own kind. Does this mean he's losing whatever it is that makes him a mech?

His mate whimpers as the hunter hits her off of him. He lunges at the mech, claws tearing easily through the armor and drawing Energon. The mech screams out as he pounces and bites the mech's neck cables, easily harmed and unprotected neck cables. The mech's Energon fills his mouth; he can't help but drink it which burns his intake. He glances at his mate who looks up at him, sad . . . no, submissive. She's asking for permission . . . to feed on the mech. His tanks churn at the thought of eating a mech. What if this was Jazz? 

He nudges the mech to her, and she pounces and digs in to the vital systems. He starts walking away when he hears her whine. Glancing back he sees her watching him, Energon runs down her chin and coats her chest. The same kind of Energon that runs through his lines. He could never show her his mech form, she'd think he was a hunter. She jumps off the mech's frame to rub her helm against his, a thank you in protecting them. He licks her helm and follows her to the mech but doesn't eat a part of him.


End file.
